Savage Heir by Jagger Cole

11

I hate games.

Not, like, Monopoly or Chess, that is. I love those kinds of games. It’s mind games that screw with me. Which is, I suppose, the entire point of them.

My mom played mind games, with both of us—my dad and I—for years. She lied, and gaslit, and breadcrumbed my dad for years, and me too, until the very end. Even if dad and I didn’t know-know about the man she was having an affair with until she died with him, we always sort of did, in the backs of our minds.

No one likes mind games. But I freaking hate them. And right now, I’m in the deep end of mind games with the last person in the world I should be playing games with.

Ilya Volkov: bad influence, bad guy, heir to a mafia kingdom. And also, gifted with the evil dark magic ability to enter my dreams—both waking and sleeping—and… do things to me. Bad things. Terrible things.

But mostly bad and terrible because of how they make me feel. And how they make me ache for more.

I flush as I step through the vaulted stone archway into Edward Hall, where my next class of the day is. I shake the disgusting somethings—I don’t even want to call them fantasies—about Ilya from my head with a stern grit of my teeth.

Two days ago, I was weak. Two days ago, I gave in and let myself get pulled into his little fucked-up vortex of chaos and destruction. Yesterday, I was stewing in it, and hating myself for getting all tangled up in it.

But today, as they say, is a brand new day. And I’ve hit on the perfect way to beat Ilya at his stupid fucking mind games: I’m not going to play them at all.

In five minutes, Professor Macklin will be starting in on his first English Literature lecture of the term. It’s going to be great. Not only do I have a soft spot for English Lit, but Professor Macklin isn’t exactly hard on the eyes.

But the best part is, I’m not even officially taking Professor Macklin’s English Lit class. Which means I’m just sitting in on this lecture because why not.

Why is that the best part? I smile as I step down into the lecture amphitheater and settle into the seat next to Charlotte that she’s been saving for me.

Because it’s 3:30 in the afternoon. Because today is a tutoring day.

But today, I’m not going to go to play mind games with Ilya.

In fact, I’m not going to go see him at all.

“Shit, Tenley!”

Christo beams at me as we step out into the late, late afternoon sun after the two and a half hour lecture.

I blush. “Stop, please.”

But the aristocratic Mexican guy with the long-ish black hair shakes his head. “Non, no. That was a perfect breakdown of Hemingway. Perfecto.”

Christo Feliciano is the star center for the Oxford Hills football team. And aside from almost being assured a place in the Premier League when he graduates, he’s also the son of the largest mineral mining tycoon in Mexico. Needless to say, he’s part of Patrick’s Snob Mob. But he’s one of the good ones, at least. Relatively speaking.

“Stop,” I laugh, my face red. “Professor Macklin asked, and I…” I shrug. “I just talked.”

Charlotte snorts with a grin. “You ‘just talked’ and gave like a master-level breakdown of Hemingway’s books in relation to the Spanish Civil War.” She rolls her eyes. “Showoff.”

I’m about to respond when a big, heavy arm lands across my shoulders, startling me. I whirl and look up into Patrick’s golden-ringed, blue-eyed face. He grins down at me.

“Hey, babe.”

“Uh, hi?” I feel my cheeks burn.

Patrick and I are not a couple—not really. And quite honestly, while he’s mostly a nice person, I don’t really have any feelings that lean towards taking away the “fake” part of our “fake” relationship.

But lately, I’ve started to get hints that maybe he does. The looks are a little warmer. The touches linger a little more. That charming, Presidential grin has unsaid words in it. It’s the same grin that’s burning into me right now—charming, warm, caring, and full of emotion.

It’s a stark contrast to the smile I’ve seen recently—the one that belongs to a sadistic, twisted monster. Ilya’s smile is none of the things you’d describe Patrick’s as. It’s cold and calculating. It’s disarming, but in the way a snake’s hypnotic stare is meant to lure in its prey.

It’s dangerous, is what it is.

Patrick’s eyes pull away from me. He reaches past me to pound fists with Christo before he nods at Charlotte with a brief smile. Patrick certainly has some snobby tendencies. But he’s not as bad as someone like Ainsley, who wants nothing to do with Charlotte. Patrick is at least smart enough to look past her “not being real royalty” to see that circumstances don’t matter.

In the end game, he’ll be the son of a President. She’s the daughter of a Queen. He might lean towards Ainsley’s way of thinking about it. But he recognizes that like it or not, he and my best friend are on the same “level” on the elite scale.

“Charlotte,” he says formerly. “How are you?”

“Fine, thank you.” She smiles the same smile back at him. Hey, they might not ever be best friends. But at least they’re cordial.

“So what’s going on?”

Christo chuckles. “We were telling your girl here how much she just blew away Professor Macklin with her off-the-cuff Hemingway dissertation.”

Your girl.

I smile when Patrick’s arm goes over my shoulder again, pulling me close. But inside, it’s less of a sunshiny look. Inside, the idea of being “Patrick’s” sends confusion through my head.

I’ve never really had a boyfriend. You can take your pick of the reasons why: a dad whose career uprooted me in my early teens. My own obsession with studying my ass off on the road to The Plan. Or my mother’s action showing me in no uncertain terms how utterly destructive being “someone’s” can be. Not to mention, how phony it can be.

So fake or not, the idea of being Patrick’s, or anyone’s, sours inside of me.

“Well, she’s a smart cookie,” he chuckles, turning to grin at me.

I smile back.

“Well, shall we head over to dinner?” Patrick even smiles and turns his gaze to my roommate. “You should join us, Charlotte. We’d love to have you.”

I glance at her, pleadingly. I see her try and hide the grin before she straightens her face.

“Patrick, I would love to. But I have other plans already.”

“Ahh, well, please do take me up on the offer any time.”

Patrick’s arm slips from me as he lunges over to playfully punch Christo in the arm. They start talking about football as I whirl on Charlotte.

“Oh come on! Save me from Ainsley Hendershire!”

She giggles. “Sorry, my dear. Love to, really. But I’ve got…” her face sours and her voice lowers. “Dance lessons.”

I blink. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Dance lessons,” she hisses a little louder, her face red. “In the recital hall, via video call with Gemma and some famous ballroom dancing person.”

The grin pulls wide across my face before she glares at me.

“Don’t you dare make a joke.”

I make a zipper motion across my lips.

“Sorry, mouth shut.”

She sighs. “Well, enjoy the Snob Mob. Please tell Ms. Hendershire that I highly recommend she empty all that sand out of her knickers—”

I snort as I choke over the giggle.

“Have fun with ballroom dancing.”

Char gives me a hug before she takes off across the campus towards Bourne Auditorium.

“Shall we?”

I turn back to Patrick and his charming, warm smile. I might not be into him like that. But I can’t ignore the way that smile makes me tingle a little.

“Can I meet you there? I was going to drop my bag off at my place and change.”

He grins. “Of course. I’ll save you a chair.”

I wave goodbye to Christo and Patrick and then start walking back to my cottage. As I walk, I slip my headphones in and switch to my music on my phone. Mumford and Sons starts to play. I smile as I throw my head and inhale the early evening fall air.

There’s no monsters swooping in. No one is arresting me. The Academy hasn’t called to tell me they’re permanently tarnishing my record.

I smile smugly; triumphantly.

I looked The Wolf in the eye, and he blinked.

Fuck Ilya. And fuck his stupid mind games. I mentally pat myself on the back as I step into my cottage and shut the door. The music fills my ears as I congratulate myself for beating Ilya at his own game. All this time, everyone’s been so terrified of him. And apparently, all it takes to deal with a bully like him is all it takes to deal with any bully.

You stand up to them. You call their bluff. Bullies will be the first to call for a game of chicken. But they rely on the fact that the other person will flinch first. All you have to do is not do that, I think to myself as I climb the stairs to my room. Just don’t flinch, and the bully will.

I grin as I step into my room.

Check. Fucking. Mate, Ilya.

I let the door close behind me and walk over to my desk by the window. I sling my bag off, stretch my shoulders and then pluck my headphones out.

“Are you proud of yourself?”

I scream. Like a full-on murder shriek as I whirl, clutching my heart. There, leaning against the dresser in the corner of my bedroom, is Ilya.

I swallow, paling as his piercing green gaze burns into me.

“Hi,” I croak.

His mouth thins. “You blew me off.”

“I…” I drag my teeth over my lip. My eyes feel locked with his, like I can’t look away because of some kind of dark magic.

“That wasn’t wise.”

Somehow, I make myself swallow the fear to the back of my mind. And I manage to make myself glare right back at him.

“I’m not your servant, Ilya.”

He smiles thinly. Like a viper. Like an animal ready to pounce. I tremble.

“You don’t control me—”

“You missed our tutoring appointment.”

I smile. “Actually, I didn’t miss it at all.”

His eyes narrow. “Cute.”

“I’m not scared of you, Ilya,” I spit.

His jaw tightens, and he stands from the wall. I gasp, shuffling backwards as he steps towards me.

“And I keep telling you,” he growls thickly. He keeps coming towards me, until I’m trembling against my desk as he looms over me. It’s like he’s pinning my ass to it without even touching me. Like his very presence or aura is doing the pinning for his hands. “You really should be.”

I swallow the lump that threatens to choke me. My fingernails dig into my palm hard enough to sting. But I refuse to quail before him. I refuse to cry or beg for his forgiveness for missing our tutoring appointment.

“What are you going to do, Ilya,” I hiss. “Hit me? Hurt me?”

His eyes bore into me. Slowly, the corners of his lips curl dangerously.

“Do you think of me as some sort of bully, Red?” He growls quietly.

I curl my lip. “Yes, because you a—”

“I am so much more than that,” he snarls, his head lowering so fast I gasp, and his lips brushing my ear. Again.

I close my eyes. I can’t help it. It’s like an automatic response to his mouth near my neck like that. It’s evolutionary, I try and tell myself. That’s the reason my skin tingles and prickles. That’s the reason my pulse thuds like a train in my ears.

That’s why heat blooms between my thighs when his hand reaches up and his tattooed knuckles brush my jaw.

His hand strokes back and forth before he twists it. Suddenly, his thumb and forefinger grasp my chin. It’s not hard enough to be painful. But it’s hard enough to send something hot searing through my body.

“Don’t play fucking games with me, Tenley,” he purrs. “This was your one fuck up. Next time, know that you’re playing with fire.”

“And if I don’t play at all?” I breathe quietly.

He smiles thinly.

“That’s no longer an option.”

I shiver. We stand there, inches apart, him pinning me to my desk with my jaw caught in his hand. The heat of him burns me. The power of his gaze sears into me.

“I’m being expected somewhere,” I whisper.

A growl rumbles in his chest. “Where?”

“Dinner.”

His lips curl into a sneer. “With Patrick.”

“No, I…” I frown. And then I nod. “Yes.”

“Hmm.”

His hand drops from my chin. The way I instantly miss it makes me cringe. It makes me want to check myself into fucking therapy, today.

He backs away from me. His eyes sweep over me from head to toe, leaving my skin tingling in their wake.

“In that?”

I frown. “Excuse me?”

“I asked if you were going in that, or if you were dressing up for him.”

My lips purse. Just tell him to get the hell out. Scream for help. Tell him to go fuck himself.

“I was going to change,” I say softly.

He doesn’t say or do anything. But then slowly, he turns. He walks to my dresser and reaches for the top drawer. I’m still so thrown by him even being here that it takes me a second to jolt into action.

My eyes go wide as he slides the drawer open. “Wait! Don’t—!”

He smirks. Too late. Ilya Volkov has officially just opened up my panty drawer.

“These aren’t…” he frowns and then looks up at me with a smirk on his face. “You don’t wear these, do you?”

My mouth purses. “Excuse me?”

“Tenley, these are…” he shakes his head. “Jesus.”

“What the hell is wrong with my under—hey, get out of there!” I shriek as he dips a hand into the drawer. He pulls out an especially frayed, awful red and blue striped pair. I cringe as the blood rushes to my face.

“Those are for laundry day,” I mumble.

“Of course they are,” he snickers. “And these?”

This time, it’s the world’s most unflattering pair of mint green, high-waisted boy shorts.

Dear Lord, please just take me now.

“For the other laundry day,” I hiss though clenched teeth.

Ilya smirks. “Nothing special for dear Patrick?”

I glare at him. “Patrick and I aren’t—” My mouth snaps shut. “Plenty,” I sneer. “I just keep those pairs somewhere else.”

Ilya’s amused smirk stays on his face as his eyes burn into me.

“Maybe I should help you change for—”

“Get out,” I hiss.

His eyes narrow. His grin fades. But then it’s back—hungry, daring, wolfish.

“Remember that this was your one and only warning, Red,” he growls. “Next time, I won’t be so nice about you missing our sessions and fucking with my schedule.”

He turns and glances back into my open drawer. Before I can yell at him again, his hand slips in and he plucks something out. This time, it’s actually a pair of halfway-sexy panties—a red, somewhat lacy, bikini-cut style.

“Wear these.”

I gasp as Ilya tosses them to me. I clench them in my hand, glaring at him.

“Get out.”

“Are you going to wear them?”

My face burns hotly. My lips purse tightly. “This is inappropriate, Ilya.”

He shrugs. “Enjoy dinner.”

He turns, but then he stops. His head half turns back to me.

“Better not tell Patrick I just got into your panties.”

Without another word, he steps out of my room. I wait, my skin throbbing with heat, and barely breathing as I listen to him walk down the stairs. It’s not until the front door closes behind him that I exhale, shaking all over

I was wrong. I didn’t win the game of chicken today.

The Wolf did.